


Integration

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Blow Jobs, Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atticus obliges Rose’s interest in seeing him indulge... other interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Integration

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set during the S5 holiday special. I can’t (so didn’t) write historically or britpick. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s an awkward affair after his father’s outburst, but it always is. Embarrassment is nothing new to Atticus, and by now he hides it well, or at least, hopes he does. He has no want to be disloyal to the man that made him everything he is, but he can hardly condone lashing out at the staff, or worse, calling another man’s staff _stupid._ Atticus catches himself glancing over his shoulder more than once, though the Downton under-butler manages to still stand tall. 

Their own butler looks furious, but he has less of Atticus’ sympathy. Rose tries to keep the talk light after that. Everyone does, but Rose is the best at it; she’s a beacon of positivity that invigorates the whole table. When she gets up, it leaves an emptiness behind, though she says she’ll be right back. Atticus assumes she’s off to the washroom, but then she gives him that wild, come-hither look that says, instead, she’s scheming, and she’d like his help. 

He goes, of course. He excuses himself politely to the two women on either side of him, plucking up his glass to take with him so it’s clear he’s hardly planning to join on Rose’s excursion. They’re married, yes, but so long as his parents are in the same room, they’ll never quite be _free_.

Waiting for him, Rose loops her hand around his arm as soon as he’s close enough, and she leads him off to the foyer. Atticus catches a few last snippets of conversation—now diverted to how ‘cute’ he and Rose apparently are together—and then they’re all alone, and Rose turns to him with her wide smile and perfect teeth and glistening eyes. Her energy puts him right on his toes, like she’s about to go running off for an adventure and he’s now ensnared enough to follow. They might just be. 

She looks aside once before admitting, “That was rather awkward.”

“Yes,” Atticus replies, already halfway through a guilty cringe. “I apologize for my father. Particularly for his treatment of your under-butler. He hardly deserved that.” 

“I noticed you looking at him a few times,” Rose returns, and now her words are a little rushed, so he knows they’re in the direction of what she wants to really discuss. “Mr. Barrow, I mean. Oh, but you needn’t worry about him. He’s a strong chap. And he still looks rather good, don’t you think?”

Atticus had thought that. A more timid man might’ve been left quivering, a less controlled one glaring, but Mr. Barrow didn’t bat an eye. There’s definitely a quiet power to him, and Atticus means to agree, but somehow winds up saying, “He is very handsome.” And then he’s stifling the beginnings of a blush, because that isn’t quite what he meant to reveal, even though it’s certainly a true sentiment. 

Rose, bless her, looks ecstatic over the slip. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” and in an attempt to save himself, Atticus adds, “Don’t you think so?”

“Oh, I’ve always thought Mr. Barrow attractive,” Rose laughs, waving a hand. Atticus doesn’t react with any blame or surprise—he gets the feeling Rose has studied every eligible man she’s ever encountered, and Mr. Barrow _is_ attractive. “But I’m more curious about what you think about him.”

“Me?”

“Yes! Why do you think he’s handsome, I mean? The specifics? Or are you just being general?”

This is a strange conversation. But part of the joy of being with Rose is the ability to be strange without fear of judgment, so Atticus, lifting his eyebrows and tilting his head aside while he thinks, muses aloud, “Well... he has an admirable build, I suppose. Strong features, sleek hair, interesting eyes. An expressive mouth.” Pausing, Atticus glances back towards the dinner, but they’re still alone, and he has to rely on his memory. When he looks at Rose again, she’s practically leaning forward on the balls of her feet, hanging on to his every word, so he searches his head for more details on just where his vague attraction comes from. “Some people just pull off a uniform, livery or otherwise, very well, I suppose. And I think Mr. Barrow would fall into that category.” About to finish, he tacks on, “And there’s a daring, mysterious element to the way he carries himself.” Because explaining how gracefully and alluringly another man moves doesn’t seem such a good idea, Atticus stops himself there. 

Rose makes a small noise in the back of her throat that sounds like the beginning of a scream, except that she looks utterly delighted. For a moment, she doesn’t answer, just bites her lips and looks away, delicate fingers playing loosely with her necklace. So Atticus contents himself to wait, politely standing by with his glass in his hand and his mind wandering back to the under-butler wearing footmen livery back with his dining parents and guests. 

Finally, Rose seems to make up her mind, and she looks him dead in the eye and says very sternly, “You can absolutely say no if you disapprove, and we’ll never speak of this again.”

“No to what?” Atticus’ brow knits together, confused. Whenever Rose gets serious, he knows something big is going to happen.

“I mean it. I had a... a thought. An idea, although it isn’t mine, you mustn’t think it’s mine—it’s just something I’ve heard others speak about before, but not usually around... well, around proper families like ours. But we’re young and the world’s changing, isn’t it? There’s no harm in experimenting?”

He can tell from the look on her face as much as that explanation that it’s going to be something they’ll never be able to tell a soul. But she looks so hungry for it that he doubts he’ll be able to deny her. And all her words are true. Whenever she gets like this, fiery and new, it spikes excitement in him, makes his whole body hum with interest—it’s what attracted him to her in the first place. He doesn’t want to be bound by ‘proper’ antics any more than her.

She says, “I’ll handle all the arrangements if you agree.”

He asks, “What am I agreeing to?”

She looks around before she lifts up on her toes, leaning in to whisper in his ear, and his eyes grow wider the longer she talks, the glass nearly falling from his hand.

* * *

By the time the festivities are over, the embarrassment over his father has long since seeped away, even with all the... other... surprises. Now he’s just nervous. Profoundly, inexplicably nervous, even though Rose tells him that in some parts of the world, away from the suspicious eyes of the upper class, this is considered ‘normal.’ Or at least, more common than one would think. He finds the whole notion a terrifying concept, almost as much as he finds it exhilarating. 

It’s good to be in their bedroom alone, but tonight they restrain themselves from throwing themselves at one another, both in anticipation for the oncoming show. Atticus doesn’t know quite what to do with himself, while Rose flitters about their quarters like a giddy butterfly. She picks one chair that she particularly likes and drags it first next to the bed, then over by the dresser, then against the far wall. Atticus paces in front of the large four-poster and asks, fiddling with his bare hands, “Perhaps I should undress?” Then, blushing furiously, corrects, “Get out of my dinner jacket, I mean, of course I didn’t mean—”

“It’ll be fun,” Rose insists. She must see how nervous he is. But she doesn’t coddle him. She seems too excited herself. She just lifts him up, comes over to wrap him in a warm embrace, lacing her bravery and adventurous spirit all around him. It seeps into his body, awaking buried feelings he never thought he’d let see the light of day. Somehow, Rose has seen them anyway, right through to all his darkest secrets, and through her hug she tells him _it’s alright_ , because she revels in forbidden fun. 

He asks, “Are you sure about this?” Because it still doesn’t seem _right_. Perhaps before, when the sin would’ve taken him down alone, but now they’re married and he has a duty to her.

She trills into his ear, “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to watching.” She’s a strange one, his Rose. 

He pulls back enough to peck her cheek. 

And the door clicks open behind him, so sudden that he nearly jumps, whirling around on the spot. Rose instantly disentangles from him, floating over to the chair she’s meticulously placed, leaving him horribly alone and vulnerable to this crazed beginning. The door swings itself into the room, and Mr. Barrow slips silently inside, shutting the door behind him even as he peers down the hall. Rose has assured Atticus that Mr. Barrow is quite clever enough to make sure he isn’t caught, but Atticus is the one that’ll fall the farthest if this is ever discovered. His father might disapprove of Rose, but even his mother would have his head for even thinking of what he’s about to do.

He stands, awkward and still, before the bed, with his arms stiff at his sides. His dinner jacket’s still snug around his tense body, but he can hear Rose teasing in his head that that’s what valets are for. Atticus has never had a valet anything like Mr. Barrow. 

He had a hall boy once, when he was much younger, that was also young and good looking with a wicked smile, but that’s one of those stifled memories he’s swore to never revisit. There’s a price to pay for the riches of his name, and his self-restraint brought him Rose, so he’s nothing to complain about. 

He glances back at her while Mr. Barrow strides further into the room, and Rose bites her lip, nodding to redirect his attention. As Mr. Barrows comes to an elegant stop, Atticus stumbles to ask, “Are you quite sure you’re alright with this?” _This_ was determined by Rose, and Atticus isn’t even sure what she told Mr. Barrow, but he trusts her, and Mr. Barrow’s sly smirk says it all. The confident pride on his face only enhances his striking features, gives his presence more volume, makes him feel important and talented: something to be coveted. If they were ever going to make this step, this is the right man to do it with. 

That man smoothly replies, “I’m quite certain, my lord.” His voice is a deep purr, and the title comes out like silk. Atticus nearly shivers. Mr. Barrow nods towards Rose and adds, “Thank you for this opportunity, my lady.” She smiles but, for once, says no more. She’s a silent partner, she explained. The manager and the witness. Mr. Barrow doesn’t spare her a second glance. Atticus can only guess at how truly interested in the idea he was, but there’s no hesitance now on Mr. Barrow’s face. 

Because of the nature of what they plan to do, Atticus insists, “Atticus will be fine.” Mr. Barrow lifts an eyebrow, and Atticus elaborates, “You may call me that. For tonight.” But never outside these walls, though he’s sure he doesn’t have to say that. 

Mr. Barrow inclines his head and replies, “Very well... Atticus.” The way it rolls off his tongue makes Atticus’ blood pressure spike, his fingers working at his sides. “I suppose you should be calling me Thomas, then.” 

_Thomas._ It’s the perfect name for him, fits him like the glove over his one hand, brings him to life as more than a servant. Atticus repeats, “Thomas.” 

Thomas takes a step closer, and for one horrible moment, Atticus’ blood runs cold, terrified—he likes women too, why sully that by slinking back to forbidden desires—and he’s _married_ for God’s sakes, never mind that this was all her idea—and then there’s the fact that Thomas Barrow is a servant and he, supposedly, has to live up to his father’s name—but on Thomas’ next step, the entire polarity of Atticus’ being has switched, the unbridled attraction crashing into him. He can smell the faint musk of Thomas’ cologne, can openly stare at the sleek lines of Thomas’ frame, can acknowledge that he’d die to run his fingers through Thomas’ dark hair. He’s a young man and his libido gets ahead of him, and he doesn’t have to break his vows, because he was offered this on a silver platter, and on Thomas’s final step, Thomas drawls, “Do you want help out of your clothes, Atticus?” And Atticus can’t look away from the plush lines of his pink lips. 

Atticus can only nod, his own lips parted. Thomas seems to preen under the attention like a cat, and he lifts both hands to the lapels of Atticus’ jacket. Only the one glove is on, probably covering up an old war injury, like so many others, that Atticus vaguely wants to ask about but doesn’t. He wonders briefly what Thomas would’ve been like in the war—maybe brave, or maybe too cunning for the blunt violence, maybe something better suited behind the scenes, kept as pretty and polished as possible. A man like Thomas should be kept well and groomed, or at least, Atticus’ straying mind thinks so, until he wrenches himself back and tries to keep his imagination in check. He doesn’t know much of Thomas Barrow. Yet.

One more half step, and Thomas is right in Atticus’ space, boots nestled just between his, toes brushing. The distance between them is so little that Atticus can taste Thomas’ air, both tall but perhaps him a little taller, staring right into Thomas’ eyes because Thomas ensnares him and won’t let him look away. Thomas’ palms press flat against his jacket and run down, a simple motion meant to smooth out wrinkles, but it feels like the prelude to a burlesque show, the way Thomas does it. Thomas’ fingers seem to take liberties, tracing Atticus’ body through the fabric, and when they dance back up, they make Atticus shiver. Thomas drifts to the first button and pops it through the hole without even looking. He undoes each button with a savvy little push and a dangerous glint in his eyes. When the jacket’s open, Thomas’ sinful fingertips slip inside. Trapped beneath his shirt and jacket, they spread across his chest. The fabric pushes back, and Atticus is acutely aware that this isn’t the way a valet undresses his master, but this is _better_ , because they can keep their eyes locked and Thomas gives Atticus’ pectorals a little squeeze, making him grunt. Thomas’ hands dance up his shoulders, brush the jacket over them, and ghost down Atticus’ arms to help disentangle them. Atticus is a wreck that surrenders himself to being felt up as he’s undressed. When the jacket’s off his shoulders, Atticus releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

Thomas, still without looking, pulls the remains loose and folds it, finally breaking eye contact as he moves to place it on the table by the bed. Down to all white, Atticus stands where he is, wondering when it’s really going to happen. 

Thomas’ traitorous hands have left his body, and though he wants them back, Thomas orders first, “Sit down.” It feels like he wants to tack on ‘my lord,’ but it’s poignant enough as it is. That Thomas has managed to come to terms with this part of himself and master it so well impresses Atticus, who’s always stomped down that side, to no end. Atticus obeys as though he were a hall boy under his butler’s command. It’s lucky the bed’s right behind him, because he falls back without thinking to look, hits the soft covers and sinks in, hands bracing himself against the edge. He looks up at Thomas and has the wild longing to be kissed, then wonders if this is a good angle for Rose to see or not. 

She’s good to him. _So_ good, so generous. He’s not sure he could watch someone else be with her. Well, perhaps another woman. He tries to picture another man, but right now, all he can picture is Thomas, and he wants Thomas for himself. Or perhaps they could share him? But Thomas spares no looks for Rose and seems solely focused on Atticus, so Atticus, lucky as he is, reaps the rewards on his own. 

Thomas sinks slowly to the floor, kneeling at Atticus’ feet, and Atticus instantly understands how a sight can be as pleasurable as an experience. Seeing Thomas on the floor for him gives him more excitement than it should. There’s something in the angle, the power of being higher, and the trusting, vulnerability of Thomas’ own submission that has Atticus’ crotch stirring more than he’d care to admit it. He catches Thomas eyeing it, his long fingers climbing Atticus’ boots. As he works, his eyes rise back to Atticus’, securing some intangible connection that Atticus feels but can’t explain. He wonders for one sickly moment how many other men Thomas has done this to, but then chastises himself and wills himself to respect Thomas’ choices. It isn’t like he’s much of a saint on his own. 

He can’t help but wonder if they’ll do this again. They’ll visit Downton often, he assumes, and they’ll need a staff of their own too. Perhaps...

Thomas carefully pulls off Atticus’ boot, and Atticus’ leg bends itself to Thomas’ movements, clothed one minute and only a sock for armour the next. Thomas smoothes down the leg of his trousers, securing the material along the contours of his skin, unnecessary and intimate. Then the next boot is going the same way, left to sit in a neat pair near the end of the bed, while Thomas rises back to his feet.

He stands straight, just at the end of Atticus knees, and for a moment, Atticus expects to be pushed back to the mattress, pinned down and taken _right now._ His hands itch to leap for Thomas’ waistcoat, want to run around the slick sides and pull Thomas down by the tails of his coat. But Atticus isn’t ready for that leap, so he lets Thomas study him, only hoping he’s appraised well. 

Thomas pulls his own jacket from his shoulders, shrugging it off at a sensual crawl. Atticus’ eyes are glued to the performance; he can’t help but feel this would do well on a low-lit stage in some anonymous, underground club, where men would go and spend all their money to watch Thomas Barrow shed his uniform. But Thomas only pulls loose his jacket, folding it to place next to Atticus’, then pulls free the bowtie around his neck. As he comes back to stand between Atticus’ feet, he loosens his collar, showing off a tantalizing peek at the pale skin of his neck, adam’s apple bobbing once before he licks his lips. He looks so good that Atticus could eat him, or better yet, eat food off his body, lick sauce off his lips. Thomas pauses before the rest, like giving Atticus one last chance to slip free and call everything off. 

Atticus has come too far now. He pats the bed next to him, and Thomas dons a lazy smile that borders on a smirk. Or perhaps that’s just the natural quirk of his lips. He turns to sit down, making the mattress dip, so close that his leg brushes Atticus’, his thighs spread to give them more contact, right down to the sides of their feet. When he turns in, Atticus turns too. 

Thomas’ finger slips under his collar, tracing his throat. His own bowtie is deftly undone, fast and sharp and easier than he could’ve ever stumbled it off under such circumstances. As the tie slithers out of his collar, Thomas’ other hand is lifting to cup Atticus’ face, thumb lightly tracing over his cheekbone. The bowtie isn’t put away, probably slinks to the floor, forgotten, as Thomas closes the distance between them. 

Their mouths press together, and Atticus parts his lip to hiss a haggard breath; this is it. Finally it. He hasn’t kissed a man in so _long_. But Thomas isn’t that different from Rose in some regards; his lips are soft, moist, press into his with a restrained, nearly desperate sort of fervor, only that Thomas is more controlled. And Thomas is stronger too, presses back, strokes his face, holds onto his chin and turns to fit better, their noses side-by side. Atticus’ eyes have fallen closed, and for the first few seconds, all he can do is savour the slightly salty, smoky taste of Thomas’ lips. 

And then he’s breaking, can’t hold it back, and he pushes forward to smash his mouth harder into Thomas’, so desperate for _more_. His lips open and his tongue darts to trace the line of Thomas’ closed mouth, pressing in at the middle, trying to push inside. Thomas opens for him but darts another tongue out to meet his. Atticus sucks it into his mouth before weaseling his along the side to reach into Thomas’, to trace his teeth and feels his walls. It’s more smoke and more spit and a velvety warmth, with an intoxicating _push_ that goes straight down to Atticus’ groin. 

When he finally pulls away, he’s panting shallowly. Thomas looks something like a hungry tiger. Atticus forces himself to look over his shoulder, checking that this is all okay. Rose is leaning forward with her elbows on her lap and her chin against her knuckles, her face beaming almost as lecherously as Thomas looks, as Atticus feels. So he stomps down his guilt and reservations and leans back into Thomas, who seals them back together in a heartbeat. 

Thomas is ferocious. He kisses Atticus fiercer, harder, fast, needy things that slither into his mouth and back out to trace his lips, dip inside and nip at his edges, his bottom lip tugged out between Thomas’ teeth. Atticus keeps up just as well, his mouth ravaging as much as it’s ravaged. He keeps his hands respectfully at his sides, even though he wants to rip all of Thomas’ clothes away and fist them in Thomas’ hair, until Thomas’ hands return to his shirt. Then he lets his hands reach Thomas’ neck, and he slips around it to slide through the silky strands, a little damp with gel and ridiculously soft. Without once breaking contact, Thomas makes quick work of Atticus’ shirt buttons. Before Atticus knows what’s happening, his shirt is falling open, and Thomas is pulling away, even though Atticus is chasing him, still wanting more. 

Atticus wants to know more of Thomas Barrow, both his body and his mind—his being, what he’s good at, what makes him work. Atticus has never been the sort to consort and not get attached. Thomas seems like the kind of man who would have a guard built around his heart, but perhaps Atticus could melt it—perhaps they could do this again—perhaps Rose would permit him to invite Thomas to tea and discuss... anything... before they slunk back to the bedroom for another round. 

Thomas’ hands run back down to Atticus’ chest and give him a little nudge. Atticus bends backwards, but not fast enough, and Thomas shoves him the rest of the way—he hits the mattress and grunts. Thomas is nodding up the bed, and Atticus has to work on hands and knees to slide up and get his legs onto the mattress too, lying across it when he should be lengthwise, though thankfully his married status gives his mattress enough width for this. Thomas’ hands pry under the sides of his shirt, hitting bare skin and sliding back to expose more. Thomas seems to be enjoying the show; he eyes every little new area he opens up to the lukewarm air, and he presses in as he moves, like kneading Atticus’ flesh. Thomas’ hands are warm, large, skilled. They spread him apart, until all of his front is bared, and Thomas takes a few extra rounds to palm him and rake blunt nails down his skin. 

Then Thomas throws a leg over Atticus’ hips, shifts, and straddles Atticus’ lap, sitting down on his crotch. The weight and the pressure makes the bulge there grow, and Atticus has to stifle his groan while Thomas stares down at him, like a starving man that hasn’t had a drink in ages. 

Atticus feels both inadequate and like a piece of meat. But the attention is more than welcome, and if his body pleases Thomas, good. Thomas’ pleases him. Thomas asks casually, fingers slipping around Atticus’ nipples to tease in little circles, “Are you enjoying yourself, Atticus?” He seems to relish the name, like separating Atticus from his title is a feat in itself. Atticus spares another look at Rose. 

He breathes, “Very much.” It comes out ragged. He’s sure his eyes are dilated. The mattress obscures part of his vision, but above the blurry floral pattern of the covers is Rose’s hyper-interested face. He’s _so lucky._

Thomas may as well be ignoring her existence. He seems honed in on Atticus, like it’s just the two of them in this room, in the world, and he leans down, arms slipping out to either side of Atticus’ body. Thomas hovers above him on hands and knees, then slinks to knees and elbows, his face ducking to the side of Atticus’, mouth right next to Atticus’ ear. Into it, Thomas purrs, “This needn’t end tonight.” The words sound raunchy and dripping with promise, though Atticus doesn’t need convincing. He’d like that. Very much. 

Thomas presses a chaste kiss to Atticus’ cheek, and Atticus grits his teeth, biting back a moan. His hips leap out of his control, rutting up to hump Thomas’ crotch. It doesn’t matter that he feels like a filthy dog. He’s already fallen; it doesn’t matter how far. Thomas rewards him by grinding down into him, their bodies slipping together, crotches straining through their trousers—he can feel the hard imprint against the front of Thomas’ uniform. His mind instantly races to wonder what it’s like; does Thomas’ cock look anything like his own? Or is it longer, thicker, perhaps even uncut? What would it feel like in his hand? He lifts his arms around Thomas’ sides, holding lightly to Thomas’ shoulders, and Thomas runs lower, now kissing the side of his neck. 

Atticus turns his head away to give more room, because it feels absolutely divine. Thomas kisses him harder and retracts to nip at him, just a small, tiny bite that should leave a mark and makes him hiss in pleasure, fingernails now digging in to the white of Thomas’ shirt. Thomas’ tongue snakes out to lave over the bruise, and Atticus is grinding up again and wondering if it would be alright to grab onto Thomas’ rear. Instead, he lets Thomas take the lead, lets his own neck and throat be ravaged, simply arches back and shivers into the pleasure. Thomas kisses like he was born for it. 

Thomas kisses lower, lower, licks along Atticus’ collarbone and dips inside, then runs down between Atticus’ breastbone, nose tickling through the light sprinkling of hair. He makes a wet trail over to Atticus’ left nipple and rolls his tongue around the edges—Atticus, gasping, arches his body back into the touch. His fingers run up through Thomas’ dark hair, threading into fists, and Thomas only continues the attention. He flays at the center of Atticus’ rosy nipple until the little bud is rising, and then Thomas traces it, encouraging it to stiffen, until it’s erect enough to suck inside the hot cavern of his mouth. That alone makes Atticus wild with pleasure, but it gets better every moment; Thomas starts to suckle on it, lips fixed tight around the bud and teeth lightly scraping to stimulate even more. Atticus has to pull one hand back to cover his mouth so his noises don’t pierce through the walls. He can feel Thomas smirking around his nipple. Thomas sucks him dry and then licks over to the other one, giving it the same torturously wonderful treatment. 

A few extra kisses, and Thomas licks his way down again, dipping once into Atticus’ navel before nuzzling into the brown curls along the edge of his trousers. 

Thomas’ hands make quick work of those, tugging them down so easily, his underwear going with them, exposing more and more of his hips and his crotch until his shaft is out. Thomas keeps tugging, and Atticus’ cock springs free as soon as it can, jutting proudly up into the air. Attics waits with rapt attention for Thomas to sit up and do the same, open all his clothes to show off the splendor of his body. 

But that doesn’t happen, and Atticus doesn’t complain, because he’s busy staring at Thomas’ lips locking around the mushroom head of his cock. He gets one hard, wet kiss, Thomas’ fingers wrapping around the base to hold him steady and Thomas’ clear eyes darting up to his. Atticus’ breath is frozen in his throat. Thomas’ lips look filthy, obscene, stretched around his cock, and he’s never seen anything better. Thomas’ kiss only grows wider and wider, until he’s engulfed the whole tip, tongue roaming over the spongy slit. Atticus can feel himself already leaking, but Thomas licks his precum away and leaves him fresh and trembling, fighting back the urge to slam himself up into the depths of Thomas’ throat. It takes tremendous effort to hold himself back and let Thomas impale himself at his own pace. 

Thomas slips off, licks his wet lips, and dives back down, taking the whole head at once and slipping lower, while Atticus bites back a scream. Thomas’ palm gives his base a little squeeze, then a small pump, and Thomas’ face bobs with it, slipping mostly off, then pushing farther down. His saliva dribbles down the edges and gets caught and smeared below his fingers. Thomas pushes nearly halfway down, and Atticus’ cock slides along his tongue, mouth squeezed into the tight confines of his mouth, delicious and utterly perfect. There is no greater feeling. Atticus hasn’t had his cock inside anyone’s mouth for a long, long time, and it’s just as heavenly as he remembers, better, even because Thomas is so very _good_ at it. Thomas’ talent seems to have no end. Thomas pushes further and further down, until his lips hit his own knuckles, all of Atticus’ cock taken in. He can feel himself nudging at the back of Thomas’ throat. He tries to look straight town, to keep contact with Thomas’ piercing eyes and the wanton curve of Thomas’ lips, but it’s all he can do not to writhe and toss about in complete abandon. When Thomas’ cheeks hollow out, Atticus has to bite down on his arm to muffle his shriek. 

Sliding half-off and pushing back on, Thomas sucks again, hard, bobs up and down on Atticus’ engorged dick with that blissful suction that makes Atticus see stars. He can’t stop himself from humping Thomas’ mouth, and he inevitably gives in, hips trembling as he bucks up. Thomas rides it, barely cutting back a choked noise, then holds Atticus’ hips down and grins wickedly up at him. Atticus does his best to be good, but it’s so hard when Thomas is sin itself. 

Thomas is pure sex. He oozes it out of every pore, and his free hand runs up and down Atticus’ inner thighs while the other squeezes at Atticus’ cock. His mouth sucks and licks and heats and pleases Atticus relentlessly, until Atticus’ balls are tightening and he’s willing them to stop. He wants this to last for as long as it can—he hasn’t even gotten his clothes properly off yet; the night can hardly be done—but Thomas is just too excellent and Atticus is weak and wanting. He thought Rose was everything he needed, but this fits in so perfectly, and how could he have ever given this up? But then, the men he gave up where never like this, and Thomas seems to be making it a personal mission to convert Atticus back, to ensnare him in this evil, drag them both down to a hell filled with nothing but hot, ravenous _sex._ Atticus has five fingers in Thomas’ hair and wants to pull him off, make him sit up and prepare himself and climb right onto Atticus’ cock, but it’s too late—it’s too much—ecstasy is shooting down Atticus’ spine, and he arches off the bed in one final thrust as he buries himself deep in Thomas’ throat. 

Then he comes with a wild cry, his hand not enough to stifle the sound. He can feel Thomas’ throat and mouth growing wetter around him, his release gushing out in great waves. Thomas latches on and stays there, smirking like the devil himself, and still _sucks_ , swallows it right down. The feeling of his throat constricting milks out everything Atticus has left, until he’s falling back against the bed and shaking, panting hard. 

Thomas suckles Atticus dry before pulling off, then sits back up, right next to Atticus’ hip, and wipes the back of his hand across his sullied mouth. Atticus is spent and heavy and can only watch. He thinks he’s being thoughtfully regarded, but Thomas is new to him like this and difficult to read. 

A moment later, Thomas slips off the bed, rising back to his feet. He tugs his waistcoat into place while Atticus dizzily gets up on his elbows. Thomas looks like he’s ready to leave, and Atticus hurries to ask, “Shouldn’t I do something for you?”

Straightening the cuffs of his sleeves, Thomas smoothly replies, “We can save that for another night, my lord.” The words promise something Atticus wants, but the title ends tonight’s session, and he doesn’t want that. Through his satiated haze, he sits up properly. 

From the corner, a scraping noise steals both men’s attention, and Atticus’ head snaps around to spot Rose dragging her chair across the floor. She brings it closer, nearly to the edge of the bed, and plops back down in it. Her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are blown wide, and Atticus can practically smell the arousal on her. She insists to Thomas, leaning forward from her perch, “That would hardly be fair! Atticus can do something for you, I’m sure.”

Thomas gives her a smile that could either be indulgent or grateful, then insists with a low, slick drawl, “I don’t want to impose.” But he does look like he wants it. 

So Atticus steels himself. In the leftover afterglow, his reservations are quiet and easy to ignore. He sees Thomas, he wants Thomas, he’s always liked to give, and his wife clearly wants him to.

So he pushes off the bed, down to his own knees. Sitting at Thomas’ feet, he can’t help but wonder what his father would think if he could see Atticus now. It doesn’t matter. He finds himself leaning forward to press a kiss to the tented front of Thomas’ black trousers. 

And Thomas purrs, “Very well.”


End file.
